


You Broke Me (You Saved Me)

by missjulia



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Begging, Bloodplay, Bottom Quentin Coldwater, Breathplay, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom Eliot Waugh, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Kinda?, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Rimming, Snowballing, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Eliot Waugh, Voice Kink, i think, maybe? - Freeform, this is filthy guys I’m sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjulia/pseuds/missjulia
Summary: Quentin has a little bit of a meltdown while worrying about whether Eliot likes his kinks and submissiveness. Eliot proves how much he loves it.
Relationships: Not quite a threesome - Relationship, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh, but kinda - Relationship
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	You Broke Me (You Saved Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after the infamous Margo/Eliot/Quentin threesome and after the mosaic. This is my first completed fic, because the idea worked its way into my brain and was clawing to get out. I accidental wrote 16k of porn and I am so sorry.  
> Unbeta-ed, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Daddy kink and dubcon are very mild. Bloodplay is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.
> 
> (Maybe TBC?? With Margo?? I dunno. What do you think?)  
> Title from Holly (Would You Turn Me On) by All Time Low

This is far from the first time they’ve done a scene like this, but Quentin’s reaction is always the same. Which seems like it could be half the reason that this has never gotten boring for them, not even once. Although he thinks about it sometimes, thinks that maybe Eliot can only do this so many times until it’s not fun anymore, thinks that maybe this will be the time that he hears it, hears a slightly frustrated, “I’m bored,” and the fear of that is enough to freeze his heart in his chest.

He’s standing there in front of him now, in his boring black jeans, his boring dark green shirt with the slightest of a v neck, his boring black hoodie zipped up to his throat and sighs, staring at the floor, at his feet in their worn black socks, and realizes he has nothing interesting to say to start the scene. He doesn’t say interesting things, he doesn’t wear interesting things, and the rest of him, his whole body and soul is just so eminently average that the thought is almost not as depressing as it usually is. He can almost appreciate it, but only as a comparison.

A comparison to Eliot, with his long lithe body and his large strong hands, and his beautifully kempt curls. A comparison to his eclectic clothing, embroidered waistcoats and shiny vests and seemingly endless assortment of patterned button down shirts. Not to mention his extensive collection of jewelry, most notably rings of all colors and sizes, that always catch the light and Quentin’s attention and leave him staring at his hands for far too long.

And that’s only when he was dressing to face the day. When he was staying in, like now, in Quentin’s room, his clothing was slightly less lavish, but no less breathtaking to look at. Lots of robes, in varying degrees of plushness, thick and soft in the winter, but damn near gauzy and practically sheer in the heat of the summer months.

Quentin knows that he’s been standing here too long, thinking too many thoughts in the back of his brain, thoughts that are somehow enough to make him joyfully appreciate the beauty and the elegance that Eliot shows off to him every single day, and simultaneously make him feel like the dullest, most plain human being on the planet.

“Hey.” Eliot’s voice breaks into his reverie, and his eyes are carefully fixed upon Quentin’s face, searching. Quentin realizes with a growing sense of disappointment that every moment of his hesitation, every feeling he just experienced most likely just played across his face like the world’s most pathetic reel of home movies, in front of the one person most likely to dissect it into tiny words and phrases, and then try to get him to say them out loud.

Sure enough, the next words out of Eliot’s mouth are, “Talk me through what that just was.”

Quentin can feel frustration blooming inside him, wishes he could stop it, and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings but suddenly it’s so much easier this way.

He tilts his head up, looking defiantly into Eliot’s eyes and says, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Eliot says, his face a curious mix of annoyance and worry. “You were totally gone there for a minute. I’m standing here staring at you and you could’ve been a million miles away, for all you noticed.”

“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t.” Quentin says, his face twisting bitterly. “God knows why you’d want to.”

“Want to what?” Eliot asks, looking genuinely confused, and Quentin can feel himself getting angrier. He knows that this is stupid, knows that he’s just picking a fight because he’s feeling insecure. He knows that logically, he isn’t making any sense and that it isn’t fair to expect Eliot to be able to read his mind, expect him to know that the answer was _stare at me_. He knows it isn’t Eliot’s job to fix him when he starts with his passive-aggressive nonsense. But logic doesn’t care about that when it feels so warm to huddle around his anger, feels like a home he left years ago and just can’t stop coming back to every once in a while.

“Nothing. Leave it alone.” He says coldly, taking a deep breath to try and settle himself.

“Leave what alone?” Eliot asks again, his voice now holding a tinge of anger too. “You haven’t even said anything to leave alone. One minute, we’re about to engage in _your_ favorite pastime, and the next minute, you’re not even here.”

It was the wrong thing to say, but Eliot didn’t know that and Quentin didn’t know how to tell him why, and so he let it fan the fire he was feeling, let himself really bask in the heat inside him and let it turn to rage.

“My favorite-?” He cuts himself off, too angry to even speak. He takes another controlled breath, lets it out all in one huff. “I guess you should find one of your own, then. I’m sure you have plenty of _pastimes_ to choose from, don’t you? You could go back to Idri, Fen, any one of hundreds of first-year guys that would throw themselves at your feet, even your precious _Bambi_.”

His voice is dripping with derision and it feels like he’s stuck beside himself watching him make his whole world implode. He knows that was over the line, he knows that that was too much, and he can just feel it, the rage that’s now burning inside Eliot as well as him. He can feel his resolve crumbling, unable to be angry anymore. He knows that he just committed a cardinal sin in Eliot’s eyes, insulting her. 

_You did it, Coldwater. You finally succeeded. Your entire goal your whole life was to take everyone you’ve ever loved and put them in their own bubble away from you. It’s what you’ve always done, hated yourself so much that everyone who isn’t you is just lying in wait for your emotional ass-kicking so that you can wallow in the self-pity of pretending that you don’t know why no one likes you. All that therapy-speak of “pushing others away before they hurt you” that you never bothered to listen to is exactly the behavior that created this moment._

He steels himself against the pain he feels, determined not to fall apart until Eliot leaves the room.  
He slowly looks up into his face, taking in the mess he made.

Eliot’s face is angry, but when Quentin lets himself look into his eyes, he sees something that almost looks like understanding, and it threatens to splinter Quentin into a million pieces. Eliot takes a step towards him, then another, and Quentin is backing up like a skittish deer. 

“No!” He yells, in a voice that’s tight with panic. 

Eliot stops moving toward him, and he doesn’t look angry anymore. He stands there staring at him for long moments, and Quentin can feel the unsteady thump of his heart in his chest. He turns away, sits down on the edge of the bed, facing away from Eliot as though he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.

He supposes it’s true, he couldn’t look at him. He knew his plan didn’t work. Eliot was going to make him talk about this and that sends another jolt of fear through him.

“Okay, so that, my friends, was a textbook example of self-destructive behavior.” Eliot says, his voice dry and matter-of-fact as he comes to sit down next to him.

Quentin glares daggers at him.

“What? It was. And it honestly almost worked for a second, but I know you too well to think you’d actually mean to make a disparaging comment about Margo. Although it was kind of impressive that you managed to call her that considering that we both know that she still scares the hell out of you.” Eliot breaks into a tiny smile, and Quentin can feel a little bit of loosening in his chest.

“I didn’t mean-” Quentin starts in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to say any of that.”

“I know you didn’t, Q. Which is exactly why we need to talk about why you did.” Eliot says gently.

“It was just another one of my stupid broken brain moments. It’s fine, it’s over.” Quentin says, finally feeling somewhat calm. He knows he’s lying through his teeth, but he’s afraid of stirring up all those emotions all over again.

“Uh-uh.” Eliot shakes his head, looking at him carefully. “You know better than to think that will work. Come on, I’ll help you work it out. What started this?”

“You.” Quentin says, before he can think to stop himself. Eliot looks taken aback.

“What? What did I do?” Eliot asks, a tinge of genuine fear in his voice. Quentin rushes to stop him.

“No, no. That’s not what I meant! That came out wrong.” Quentin is nearly tripping over all of his words in his haste to reassure him. “I meant that I was thinking about you.”

“Okay, that’s not quite better.” Eliot says, but he doesn’t look quite as stricken.

Quentin rolls his eyes, and feels silly for doing it. “I just got scared.” 

Eliot’s eyes widen again, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Not of you, El, god. I could never.” Quentin says, still trying to step gently to avoid making Eliot think this is his fault. 

“Okay, then out with it. What scared you?” Eliot asks, in a no-nonsense tone. He knows what works to get Quentin to talk, and now that they’ve worked their way out of the immediate minefield, he’s going to use his best methods.

“I just thought that maybe you wouldn’t want to do this with me anymore.” Quentin whispers, unable to look him in the eyes. 

“And by this you mean...? Our relationship?” Eliot thinks he might know where this is going, but he wants to rule out anything that might be more difficult to solve.

It’s Quentin’s turn to look slightly stricken. He tilts his head back, looks up at Eliot and reaches for one of his hands. He brings it up to his face, places a gentle kiss on the back of it, then sets it back down. 

“No. No, never.” Quentin says, not a hint of discomfort or anxiety in his tone as he says it.

“Then what?” Eliot is still looking at him, knowing what’s coming next. Quentin tries to look away, look back down at his hands in his lap, but Eliot’s hand is there on his chin, bringing his face back up. Quentin closes his eyes, even though he knows that it’s childish.

“You know.” He says, in a voice so quiet, Eliot can barely hear it.

“Play?” Eliot says, pitching his voice a little lower, just to see the flush it brings out on Quentin’s face.

“Yeah.” Quentin answers him. He still has his eyes squeezed closed.

“Look at me.” Eliot says, in that same honeyed voice, and Quentin sighs, but he does. “You think I do that with all of them?”

“I mean-I just kind of assumed that-” Quentin breaks off, not really sure where to go or what to say now. 

“Oh, honey.” Eliot takes his hand off of Quentin’s chin, not missing the way that Quentin instinctually leans into it, nearly chasing his hand before he realizes and stops himself. Eliot knows almost exactly how to handle this now, since he knows some of what happened in Quentin’s head. “Why wouldn’t I want to do this with you?”

“I don’t know.” Quentin mumbles. “I just thought, maybe you would get tired of playing the same games, the same routine, the same everything. I thought it would get boring for you. Or that I would get boring.” 

Eliot takes a breath, considering. He looks at Quentin’s face, still slightly flushed, with nervous eyes. 

“First of all, I’ve never played with Idri or Fen the way that I play with you. Ever. Margo is a bit of a different story, but I’m pretty sure you knew that, and we’ll be revisiting the topic of her later. Second of all, you know better than to think that any of this between us is just play. It’s what you and I call it, sure, when we engage in some of our more interesting times together. But it is never a game, and I know that. And I thought you did too.” Eliot’s word choice there is intentional. He’s not hurt, not at all, but he knows that phrasing it like that might get Quentin to reconsider everything he’s said so far.

“El, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that...you shouldn’t have to work so hard for me. I’m fine with everything we could have and do without any ulterior motives. You shouldn’t have to put on a persona or make yourself different or say any of the things that you feel like you have to say when we’re-” Quentin licks his lips, clearly still nervous. “Playing. Or not playing. Just, you know. Doing any of those things.”

Eliot lets himself smile this time. Quentin seemed to be under the impression that he was putting Eliot into a box. Forcing him into one and only one type of sex for the rest of forever, even when they both knew it wasn’t always a game. They had had plenty of lovely vanilla times together, nothing out of the ordinary, and every single one of them was just as satisfying as the times when he knew he could make Quentin beg to be broken. 

“You think that you make me work too hard?” Eliot asks him gently, not wanting to scare him out of the conversation.

“I mean,- don’t I?” Quentin isn’t sure exactly how to say what he wants to say, so he just lets some words tumble out of his mouth. 

“You’re always paying attention, always waiting for me to be needing something from you. And when I’m having a hard time, or making things weird, or when you have to ask me something four times before I can answer you, you’re still there, looking for clues. You made it your mission from day one to learn everything you possibly could about me and my fucked up psyche. And sometimes, even though I don’t mean to, I feel like a goddamn walking Agatha Christie novel, just some stupid mystery for you to solve. And I hate the feeling that I’m making you jump through hoops, especially because I don’t even notice that I’m doing it until after you’re already doing the jumping! And those are just the things you do in regular everyday life, not even counting the things that you do when we’re-...other times.” Quentin loses steam at the end of his rant, partially because he doesn’t know what else to say, and partially because that tiny flush was starting again on his neck and in his cheeks.

The grin is back on Eliot’s face now, he can't help it. His Quentin was just too sweet. He was so earnest and worried that somehow he was being a bother to Eliot, when Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so fulfilled in his entire life, with someone else to look after and take care of.

“Sweetheart-” Eliot starts, letting a hint of his amusement back into his voice. “I was the king of a nation. _That_ was working too hard. We had to save the world, multiple times. _That_ was working too hard. We had to solve the world’s most annoying puzzle together. _That_ was working too hard. Not that that experience didn’t have its own list of pros that far outweighed the cons.” He says flirtatiously, letting his eyes travel slowly downward over Quentin’s chest, to his lap and back to his mouth. He felt satisfied when he saw Quentin’s hands clench where they sat on his thighs. “Watching you, listening to you, learning about you, spending time with you, none of those things are working too hard. I would barely consider them working at all.”

Quentin’s face is starting to lose some of its dark shadows at Eliot’s words, and he still kind of hates himself for asking, but somehow he can’t stop it.

“Really?”

“Really. You’re not nearly as high maintenance as you seem to think you are. Especially considering that I’m....you know. Me.” Eliot’s still smiling and Quentin really is feeling marginally less stupid.

“Yeah, but you’re like, high maintenance in a fun way. You know, a take-too-long-getting-ready, and perfectly coordinated outfits and an actual second closet kind of way. You’re not emotionally high maintenance.” Quentin is starting to smile too now, enjoying teasing Eliot.

“Oh, please. So, you want a little extra reassurance sometimes? You want me to tell you how much I love you, how I won’t ever let anything happen to you, how I’ll always take care of you and give you everything that you need for as long as you’ll let me? You need me to remind you how much I need you in my life? You want to hear how wanted and special you are, when you get trapped in your own head and can’t see it anymore? That’s no problem for me. I’m always happy to give that to you.” Eliot’s words are sweet and gentle and Quentin’s smile grows larger and he can barely feel the knot in his chest that threatened to swallow him half an hour earlier.

Eliot just looks at him for a few minutes, letting himself bask in the warmth of Quentin’s open, relaxed face. He lets Quentin enjoy it for a few minutes, then, just to watch his reaction, gives him a sly smile. He thinks Quentin might be past the emotional breakdown portion of the evening, and ready for the fun part. Eliot is also rapidly coming up with a plan, a plan that involves all of his own favorite things: talking about Margo, humiliating Quentin, and eventually having some mindblowing sex.

Fortunately for Quentin, those seem to be his favorite things as well.

Quentin knows the look on Eliot’s face, knows that it usually means a question he won’t want to answer is coming his way.

“So, you wanted to know what I do with my ‘precious Bambi?’” Eliot teases, letting his eyes fill with gentle warmth to let Quentin know that he really isn’t mad about it.

Quentin blushes, just like Eliot knew he would. He looks at the ground again, feeling nervous, but in a different way now.

“No, no. You already answered those questions, we don’t have to go back there.” Quentin says, trying to escape the question as delicately as he can.

“This is your chance, baby Q, you can ask me anything you want about her.” Eliot cajoles him, waiting for him to take the bait.

Quentin’s head snaps up a little too quickly for him to plausibly feign disinterest, but he gives it a valiant effort.

“No, it’s not my business. I shouldn’t have said anything about her, and it was rude and I apologize.” Quentin’s voice is a nervous, staccato sound, but he looks vaguely self-satisfied, as though he knew he put together the right answer and was proud of it. 

Eliot, however, knows better than to let the answer lie. He knows that the curiosity must be burning Quentin from the inside.

“Are you sure? I could tell you all kinds of things about her, and about me, and about how many times we have laid out innocent, sweet, anxious boys just like you, and taken them apart, bit by bit for hours. I could tell you about the handful of times we have teamed up to make them cry for us, and how we made sure each and every move we made was carefully designed to be a personalized, one-of-a-kind experience for each of them.” Eliot’s speaking in that same smooth, dark chocolate voice he uses when he wants something from Quentin.

Quentin’s face is flushed scarlet now, but he still looks like he’s working on his resolve, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t betray exactly how interested he was in hearing Eliot tell him all of those things, in that voice.

“That’s o-okay. I’ve been to that show once before, if you remember.” Quentin says, looking entirely too pleased with himself that he came up with what he thought was a sufficiently flippant answer, despite the stutter he had at the beginning

Eliot lets himself chuckle darkly, pleased with Quentin’s mood, which seems just a tiny bit challenging, nearly bordering on bratty. He also thinks it’s just adorable that Quentin seems to think that a nearly-blacked-out hour or two of fumbling in the dark is what he means by that.

“Oh, my sweet baby Q. You haven’t even been to that theater.” Eliot drawls at him, watching his face carefully to make sure he understood what he meant.

Quentin looks up at him, confused for a moment, until realization dawns in his eyes. 

“What-?” Quentin asks, looking positively fearful of the answer.

“You think that when I talk about our carefully laid plans to reduce a sweet boy to a luscious little puddle that I mean that we just drunkenly whispered and pawed at them in the dark? You think that Bambi and I put our brilliant minds together and all we could come up with was some shaky groping and elementary thrusting?” Eliot’s voice is still silky, but there’s steel underneath it now, making him sound just a little bit dangerous to Quentin’s ears. 

Quentin looks like he’s seen a ghost, where just a moment ago he had a lovely pink stain all over his cheeks and ears and neck, now he’s gone pale.

“I need you to breathe, baby.” Eliot says, his smile going from pleasant to sharklike.

“I’m breathing.” Quentin's voice is much less sure now, shaky and soft.

“Good boy.” Eliot teases, knowing that Quentin usually hears those words in a slightly different context than just reminding him to breathe, but judging by the tiny shiver that wracks his body, it works in whatever context it gets used in.

“What are you thinking about?” Eliot asks, not wanting to let Quentin get too comfortable in between questions, because he’s just barely starting to sink into it, letting himself enjoy this entirely unplanned scene and Eliot doesn’t want him to drag himself back out.

“That it’s late, and that we should probably go to bed.” Quentin lies, his mind full of tantalizing images of the kinds of short, brightly colored dresses that Margo usually wears, and Eliot’s extravagant matching blazers. Quentin pictures them, making out, Eliot’s big hands wrapped around Margo’s tiny waist as he licks into her mouth. He thinks about watching one of Eliot’s hands climb up her body, into her neckline, cupping her breast and rubbing his fingers over her nipples, waiting for her to moan into his mouth. Quentin pictures them, those times they managed to dress in color coordinated outfits, looking like they might do everything together in perfect synchronization and---. Quentin works hard to stop his mind from following that train of thought, because he knew that his reactions to those thoughts would certainly give him away to Eliot. 

Not that Eliot didn’t already know.

“That’s twice tonight.” Eliot says, still speaking in his smooth, commanding tone.

“Twice what?” Quentin is looking at him with blatant curiosity now, truly not catching on to Eliot’s meaning.

“Twice that you’ve lied to me.” Eliot says, letting his voice go just a little bit gentler. He wants to make sure that Quentin knows that this part is still a part of the game, not that he’s actually disappointed in him for lying. If Eliot were being honest, he’d have to admit that while he wasn’t a fan of the first lie Quentin used tonight, even if it was just to spare Eliot’s feelings, the second lie was less of a lie and more of a scripted line, and Eliot was kind of glad that it seemed like Quentin wanted a chance to play along.

Quentin’s face stays pale, and his eyes go wide. “I didn’t me-” Quentin’s voice sounds worried, and Eliot realizes that he should’ve known that Quentin couldn’t read subtlety. He jumps in to keep the discussion light and easy.

“Yes, you did. I saw those gears turning in your head. Everything that you were thinking about was practically written all over your pretty little face, and still...you lied to me.” Eliot reaches out again to take his chin in his hands and smiles at him, looking encouraging instead of intimidating, and he sees Quentin’s shoulders start to relax again.

“Jesus, I hope not.” Quentin mumbles under his breath, taking himself out of the moment for just a second or two.

Eliot, taking his hand from Quentin’s face again, can’t hold back a laugh. He leans back and grins at him again. “You hope not what? That I couldn’t read every filthy thought you were having about Margo and me right out of your head?”

“Uh--” Quentin freezes, really not thinking that that was what Eliot was going to say.

“Well, maybe not every thought. No. But that’s what you’re going to tell me.” Eliot is sure of himself, back to his well-practiced no-nonsense tone.

“No, I don’t think that I can-” Quentin breaks off, can’t even find the words to describe the words that he can’t say.

“I think you can. And I think that you will. And I think that if you don’t, I have ways of making you tell me, and you won’t want me to use them on you.” Eliot says, matter-of-factly.

“What ways?” Quentin asks, not sure what to expect. 

“Well, actually, now that I think about it, you would probably like the ways I would do it, because they would mostly involve making you nearly incoherent with need and then asking you all sorts of questions about it while you’re too far into subspace to resist answering…” Eliot lets his voice trail off, watching Quentin carefully and smiling when he sees a soft faraway look in his eyes.

“With precious Bambi on speakerphone to hear every last detail.” Eliot finishes, voice pitched low and smooth as silk again.

Quentin blinks a few times, but doesn’t break out of his trance and start falling over himself to beg Eliot not to call her, like Eliot thought he would. Eliot nearly feels his heart clutch in his chest as he understands why. _Oh. Hm, maybe not tonight, but maybe I need to talk to Margo about making some of this come true for him._

“You like that idea, doll?” Eliot asks him, smiling wickedly.

Quentin actually turns to look at him sheepishly, seeming to come back to earth a little bit with a tiny jerk of his head. “Okay, so I know that you won’t actually do that--” Quentin starts, smiling his usual open, sweet smile and breaking out of his Eliot-imposed fog, and Eliot feels a brief flash of disappointment. He had been prepared to talk Quentin into sinking deeper and playing the rest of the game Eliot had come up with. 

Although, Eliot knows that with just a tiny bit of effort, he can get him back into that hushed, pliant state of mind and that’s exactly what he plans to do. His process might be considered a little cruel, by some, but he knows that the end goal is to give Quentin exactly what he needs. He needs to feel wanted, desired, good enough. He needs to feel like he’s not burdening Eliot with anything, and he isn’t. Ever. 

Eliot knows that Quentin is insecure about his moodiness, about his need for closeness, whether it’s physical or emotional. Eliot knows that Quentin is insecure about- well, his insecurities. But more than any of those things, Eliot knows that Quentin is insecure about his wants, his cravings. It sometimes takes Eliot hours or even days to get Quentin to admit something that he wants to do or try, and the effort is never lost on him.

For as anxious as Quentin seems to be about it, he never seems to feel as light and as free as when Eliot finally persuades him to share some secret wish that Quentin’s never shared before. When he finally gets the courage to say it, it’s all mumbles and nervousness, but when he hears Eliot’s delighted laughter, -because let’s be honest, there’s nothing Quentin could ask for that Eliot either doesn’t already love or wouldn’t indulge him in- Quentin’s face seems to relax with warmth. It’s as though everything he has to reveal about himself, he seems so grateful that someone else is there to listen, to accept it, to tell him that it’s okay to want.  
And Eliot wants nothing more than to give it to him.

“Won’t I?” Eliot asks, breaking out of his own sappy daydream. God, he loves him so much that without any conscious effort from Quentin, the mere thought of him is nearly enough to shake all of Eliot’s delicate plans to sate all of those desires, the guilty pleasures that Quentin is so desperately afraid of wanting. “I’m sure that you know me well enough to know that I don’t deal in empty threats, sweet boy.” He lightens his voice to something gentler, sweeter, intentionally using one of Quentin’s favorite and least favorite nicknames, knowing that Quentin loves the feeling of being taken care of, and hates how much he loves it. Quentin’s eyes flutter a little bit when Eliot says it, but he recovers quickly and looks back up at him.

“But you would never include someone in something like this without their explicit consent.” Quentin says, grinning, feeling proud of the way that he knew Eliot’s rules, knew that Eliot was always respectful of boundaries as much as he wanted to pretend that he wasn't.

Eliot’s eyes light up at Quentin’s pride in himself, knowing that even this sweet, tame, flirtatious conversation is helping him, making him feel more comfortable and content, putting distance between himself and his little meltdown earlier.

“You know, Q, you’re absolutely right.” Eliot says, trying to look thoughtful instead of letting Quentin see the grin he’s fighting to hold back. Quentin’s face, still relaxed and happy, loses just a little of its satisfaction, as though he’s realizing that there’s a reason Eliot is agreeing with him.

Eliot stands up, a foot or two away from where Quentin is still perched on the edge of the bed, now watching him with a look that is quickly deflating from pride to nervous anticipation.

Eliot makes a show of reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone, carefully unlocking it, and scrolling through his contacts, as though anyone would believe that Margo isn’t the last person he called. All the while fighting the urge to look over at Quentin.

“What are you doing?” Quentin’s voice has none of the giggly contentment that it had a few moments ago, and Eliot feels it like a physical loss. But he can hear the knife’s edge of fear in his tone now, and it’s almost as satisfying.

“Getting explicit consent.” Eliot says simply, and calls Margo, without even looking at him.

Eliot puts the phone on speaker as it starts to ring, just as Quentin panics and launches himself towards Eliot.  
“No!” Quentin shouts, and this is exactly what Eliot was waiting for. He hears the click of the phone picking up, schools his features into an expression that almost looks like disdain and quickly says, “Sit down, Quentin.” His tone is imperious, sharp and commanding.

“I was going to ask you why the fuck you were calling me like it’s 1998 instead of texting, but I hear someone’s breaking out the Daddy voice. Quentin finally gave in to calling you Daddy? I knew it was just a matter of time.” It’s Margo’s voice, lilting and amused, and Quentin thinks that he might pass out. “Hi, baby Q.” She adds teasingly.

Quentin makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak and sits down, wringing his hands in his lap and staring at Eliot. “Good boy.” Eliot says in that same voice, reaching out and stroking Quentin’s hair, as he shivers and blushes furiously, realizing that Margo just heard Eliot say that.

“My darling, _precious_ Bambi,” Eliot says, smirking at Quentin as he fidgets, twisting at his fingers and bouncing his knee and looking positively alarmed.

“What do you want?” Margo asks, voice sounding exasperated, as always.

“Tell her, Q.” Eliot looks at him adoringly while twining his hand in Quentin’s hair a little bit tighter. Quentin shakes his head frantically, biting his lip in an attempt to silence the strangled cry that comes out of his mouth. Eliot nods at him, and Quentin feels like he’s overheating from the blush that’s threatening to stain his face for the rest of his life.

“Your explicit consent.” Quentin says, in the smallest voice he can manage. 

Margo lets out a gently mocking laugh over the phone, and Quentin’s eyes flutter shut again.  
“Jesus, El, what the fuck did you do to him?”  
Eliot relaxes his hand in Quentin’s hair, reverting to gentle petting once again.

“Almost nothing. I swear to you that we have barely done anything other than hold hands.” Eliot says, and it’s almost more than Quentin can take when he realizes that it’s true. This whole time, Eliot had barely touched him, a hand on his jaw or in his hair, or the gentle kiss that Quentin had laid on his hand what felt like hours ago. Quentin opens his eyes and makes an involuntary sound that he would refuse to describe as a whine, feeling incredibly embarrassed that he had been whimpering and letting his eyes glaze over at nothing but a few words and gentle touches.

“Okay, well then if all you’re doing is holding hands and he’s making sounds like that, it seems to me like you two are doing pretty well for yourselves. What do you need my consent for?” Margo asks, sounding confused.

“Do you want to tell her, baby?” Eliot leans down and holds the phone towards Quentin and his eyes are as wide as saucers as he shakes his head. Eliot takes pity on him and pulls the phone back up to a neutral position between them. 

“Well, Quentin here reminded me of the rules about not ever including anyone in a scene without their consent.” Eliot starts brightly, still smiling at Quentin, keeping a careful eye on him just in case this turns out to be too much.

“That’s not surprising. After all, he’s always so _good_ for you. Of course he remembers the rules.” Margo says, letting her voice go a little husky too, and Quentin sputters. 

“You should see the look on his sweet face, Bambi. He looks like he’s been betrayed.” Eliot lets out another delighted little laugh. He spares a moment to think about how much he loved Margo, how easily she managed to fall into a role that Eliot hadn’t even fleshed out for her yet. And if Eliot was being completely honest, his intent was only to keep Margo on the phone long enough for her to actually provide her consent so that he would have this as a threat to use on Quentin from now until he finally did it. Which he was definitely going to do, since it seemed to be working so well. 

Quentin was still a little panicky, but he was hanging on their every word.

Margo’s answering laugh was richer than Eliot’s. “Good to know. But I’m sure that’s not all you wanted, El, so spit it out. What do you guys need from me?” Margo asks.

“So, long story short, I gave our boy Q here a once in a lifetime chance to ask anything he wanted about you, and me, and our history together. Even said that I would regale him with the tales of our past ensemble conquests, you know, boys that we-”

“Broke?” Margo cuts him off, sounding amused.

“Exactly. And he decided that it would be prying for him to ask questions and that he didn’t want to be rude.” Eliot says dismissively, as though that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Polite.” Margo observes, not really sure where Eliot’s going with this.

“Yes, but the problem here is that he nearly stopped breathing when I gave him a few moments to consider his questions, and then, not only did he say he didn’t need to know, he also lied to me when I asked him what he was thinking about us.” Eliot puts on a bit of a scandalized affront, and smiles when it makes Margo gasp too.

“What nerve.” She says, managing to sound only slightly less deadpan than usual. Eliot bites his lip to stifle a laugh, thinking it might ruin the mood he’s working so hard to cultivate.

“Not only that, but when I told him about how carefully we made our plans to break the boys we shared, he said ‘no thanks, I’ve already seen that show.’” Eliot paused for effect there, knowing that sharing this with her was what was going to get her best reaction.

“He thinks that was the best that we could do?” Margo sounds incredulous over the phone, and Eliot makes a smug face. “Christ, you could’ve shown that on television, it was that tame.”

“My thoughts exactly. So, I told him that if he didn’t ask me all his questions, let me tell him all about sharing a boy with you, and tell me all the filthy things he’s thought about us doing together, or us doing to him, that I was going to drop him so far into subspace that he can’t even remember his own name, and then coax it out of him. With you on speakerphone just like this, so that he knows he’s baring his soul to the both of us.” Eliot’s hand leaves Quentin’s hair as he says it, gliding over his cheek and down his jaw, then tracing gently over the column of his throat to settle his hand there. Quentin fucking _melts_ into his hand with another little whimper and Eliot knows he’s got him, the combination of his words and his hand almost too much for him.

“Very creative, Eliot. I’m impressed.” Margo’s voice is amused, and Quentin shocks himself with just how much he wishes he could see her, with her beautiful face alight and her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But I think I wanna sweeten the pot a little bit. Instead of doing this over the phone, we’re gonna do something different. If he doesn’t tell you now, send him to come get me. That way, you and I can sit and watch him tell us everything he’s pictured us doing. Maybe we can make it an...interactive experience.” 

Quentin straightens and sits up at her words, practically choking himself against Eliot’s hand at his throat, and he didn’t even mean to, but it’s just so _good_ that he leans against it for a moment, still feeling a little ashamed, but it’s worth it.

Eliot looks down at him with a predatory smile, then turns back to the phone. “I think he likes your idea better than mine.” 

“Of course he does.” Margo says, then pauses for a moment. “Actually, scratch that. I think I’m too curious to not have this as a guarantee. Go ahead and tease it out of him now, but the next time you think he needs something a little more...intense, have him come get me, and we’ll have him tell me everything. And you’ll already know, so that’ll stop him from keeping secrets.” 

Eliot chances a look at Quentin before responding, and his eyes are glassy again, and it’s everything Eliot can do not to kiss him right now, just to see how he would respond. This is about the point in the game that Quentin is loose and pliant, willing to take everything Eliot gives him and let himself be manhandled and moved wherever Eliot wants him to go.

“Brilliant. I think he’ll like having me as a human lie detector, judging by his reaction just hearing you talk about it.” Eliot can’t get over the swell of pride in his chest, knowing that Quentin is just so damn eager to please. He can’t really believe that Quentin thinks that this could ever be boring for him, that he thinks it could feel anything but exhilarating, powerful, and almost too sweet for Eliot to bear, knowing that Quentin puts every ounce of trust that he has in him. Trusting him to keep him safe, make him happy, to take every bit of shame and anxiety that Quentin holds onto and turn it into something fun, exciting, hot to explore, and that when he finally comes down, Eliot will be there, keeping him small and secure and satisfied. Who ever said therapy was better than sex for introspection and self-discovery?

Margo laughs, thick and rich, and Eliot almost wishes she were there with him right now to wreck another beautiful boy together. But Eliot knows that the time will come, so he thanks her for her brilliant, wonderful, sexy idea.

“Have fun, boys.” She lets her voice go deeper again, assumes her own forceful tone that makes Quentin close his eyes. “Be good, baby Q.” 

The phone beeps, signaling the end of the call, and the two of them are left alone in Quentin’s room again, and he seems unsure of what to do next.

“You heard her, darling.” Eliot tells him, gentle and sure of himself. “You don’t want to disappoint Bambi, do you?”  
“No.” Quentin bites off a tiny whine, and Eliot knows that when he gets like this, all he wants to do is be so very good.

“Good. I’ll let you pick what you want to do first. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been fantasizing about, or do you want me to tell you about wrecking boys with Bambi?” Eliot watches his face, pink, but still relaxed.

“You first.” Quentin says. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for Eliot to get so worked up from the memories that he forgot to ask Quentin about the rest of it in lieu of railing him into the mattress.

“Good choice.” Eliot smiles down at him. “But before that, why don’t you get comfy? I’m not gonna talk dirty to someone who’s sitting straight up and wearing jeans, for Christ’s sake.” The laughter in his voice is sweet, and Quentin feels proud that he caused it, even if it was a teeny bit at his expense.

He reaches up, surprising himself with how steady his hands manage to be, and unzips the black hoodie. He pulls it off, tosses it onto his desk chair, then stands up and shucks his jeans and socks, trying hard not to feel self-conscious.

Eliot’s eyes are roving all over him, dark and hot with amusement and desire. “You don’t know how delicious you look right now.” 

“I look like a kid going to bed,” Quentin pouts, gesturing to his tee shirt and boxers, “It’s not a very sexy look.” But he’s smiling back at Eliot as he sits back down on the bed, pulling himself to lay back against his pillow. Eliot sits next to his hips, looking down at him with affection.

“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree, for now.” Eliot leans down to kiss him, one hand braced on the bed by Quentin’s head and the other braced on his collarbone, pressing firmly. Quentin kisses back, hot and demanding. He lets one of his hands trail up Eliot’s arm, to his shoulder, and then up into his hair, holding him close as though he never wanted Eliot to stop kissing him.

Eliot chuckles into his mouth, more than happy spend a few minutes of his brilliant plan on kissing Quentin stupid. Quentin might be passive in almost everything else that he does, but he always kisses with abandon, confidence, licking and biting at Eliot’s lips until they’re both breathing hard. Eliot pulls back to look at his face, and Quentin whines again, surging forward for more. Eliot lets himself be ravaged by Quentin’s mouth, feeling his hands in his hair more insistently now, but still soft and sweet.

They break apart again, and Eliot stares down at his lips, red and shiny and wet. He brings up the hand that was pressed against Quentin’s collarbone up to cup his jaw, gently sliding his thumb over his lips. Not surprisingly, Quentin closes his eyes and opens his mouth and Eliot can feel a lightning bolt of desire sweep through him. It’s so strong that Eliot has to fight against the urge to close his own eyes for a moment, not willing to miss a single second of Quentin doing his second favorite thing in the world, which was suck on Eliot’s fingers as though they were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

He slips his thumb into his hot mouth and sighs at the feeling of Quentin’s tongue, lapping sweetly at it, eyes closed. Quentin brings his hands down, out of Eliot’s hair, to wrap around his wrist like he wants to hold it there, hold Eliot’s fingers in his mouth for the rest of the night.

It feels good enough that Eliot might consider it, but Quentin is still relatively coherent, and that simply won’t do for Eliot’s plan for the night. He needs Quentin to be absolutely ruined by the time that he’s done with him, broken into pieces so that Eliot can hold him and put him back together, tell him how much he loves him and make it so that he never again doubts how much Eliot loves doing this for him; _to him._

He slips his thumb out of Quentin’s mouth, but Quentin is still clutching his wrist like a lifeline, so Eliot twists his hand so that instead of lying softly against his jawline, his first two fingers are now in Quentin’s mouth. Quentin mewls around them, moving his head closer to Eliot’s hand to get them further into his mouth, loving the weight of them on his tongue, the texture of his soft skin.  
Feeling a little braver, Quentin opens his eyes, locks them on Eliot’s and Eliot makes a soft little sound now too. 

Eliot loves watching Quentin like this, his eyes unfocusing and his mouth working, hollow cheeks and glossy red lips. He loves it so much, he tells him so.

“God, baby, you look so beautiful like this. Almost as gorgeous as when you’re choking on my cock, with your sweet red mouth. I wish I could see your mouth like that all the time. I should paint your lips like this every day, borrow some of that gorgeous lipstick Bambi wears and doll you up, so that every time I slip my fingers down your throat you already look so red and swollen for me.” Eliot slips his fingers further into Quentin’s mouth as he makes a whiny sound in the back of his throat.

“Oh, you like that idea, don’t you, doll?” Eliot asks, already knowing the answer.

Quentin whines again, and Eliot slowly slides his fingers out even while Quentin digs his nails into Eliot’s forearm to keep his hand where it is.

Eliot leans close, down into Quentin’s ear and whispers to him. “Tell me, sweet boy. Do you want me to paint your face like Margo, leave your mouth all cherry red and sweet so everyone can see what you look like after you’ve been gagging on my dick so pretty for me?” 

“Yes,” Quentin sighs into his ear, wanting to tell Eliot to show him off, parade him around like a trophy. He can’t say it though, can’t find the air or the words.

“You want them all to know? How sweet you beg, how desperate you are for it?” Eliot pulls back, leaves a searing kiss against Quentin’s lips, then brings his fingers back up, slipping them between their mouths, kissing and lapping against where his fingers disappear into the slickness of his mouth.

Quentin moans, sharp and hot, voice full of need. Eliot can see him, straining up against the fabric of his boxers, almost hidden by the hem of his shirt.

“So, speaking of our gorgeous Margo, I think I promised you a story or two, hmm? We had a boy similar to you once. Nervous, couldn’t ask for what he wanted, watched us like he wanted to devour us. Just like you, baby.”

Quentin starts to make a sound against Eliot’s fingers, no doubt to deny it. Eliot is right of course, as much as Quentin loves him and wants to be with him, he still can’t help but stare at Margo occasionally, think about her delicate hands, her full lips, her curves and glossy hair. Margo was a prominent feature in probably about half of Quentin’s fantasies about Eliot, and it still made him feel slightly guilty. He didn’t want Eliot to know, to think that he wanted her more.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re allowed. I see the way you watch her. The way your eyes glide over her pretty hair, her red lips, her incredible tits.” Eliot says easily, watching Quentin’s eyes.

They widen and flutter shut just as quickly as he makes an outraged sound.

“Oh, please, darling. You’re not subtle. You stare down her dresses every chance you get. Not that I blame you. But you also watch her thighs, when she crosses her legs in her short dresses. I love watching you look at her. Watching your eyes travel down her body, settle on her thighs, then travel back up to see if you can get a glimpse of her sweet little cunt under her skirts.” Eliot isn’t whispering now, just speaking at normal volume, and Quentin thinks it’s incredibly hot, the way he can just say these things, shameless and sexy. But he worries that maybe this is too much, maybe Eliot would be mad at him.

He moves to take Eliot’s hand out of his mouth while making a concerned noise, but Eliot pushes his fingers back, nearly enough to pet the back of his throat.

“Oh, no, sweetie, don’t worry. We both know that you still want to fuck her. And that’s okay. I’d love to see you with her, she would tear you apart. And you would beg to give her anything she wanted, wouldn’t you, sweet boy? Huh? She’d ask you to kneel at her feet, and you’d drop to the ground, nuzzle against her hot little cunt, no questions asked.” Eliot’s voice is gentle and calming, but still hot with desire. His eyes are still dark and Quentin blinks at him in confusion. He hadn’t wanted Eliot to know, thought he might be hurt. “Wouldn’t that be a sight for sore eyes? God, I’m so hard just thinking about it. You, kneeling between her legs, waiting to be told how she wants to use you. You want to taste her, don’t you?”

Quentin shakes his head frantically, knowing that it looks ridiculous to do it with Eliot’s fingers in his mouth, but he couldn’t bear for Eliot to think that he was more interested in Margo than in him.

“You can tell me. You’re not the only one, I promise.” Eliot says, with a devilish glint in his eyes.

This time, Quentin really can’t help but take the bait, moving Eliot’s fingers out of his mouth to look up at him.

“What?”

“Oh, that was one of your questions, wasn’t it?” Eliot asks, unable to hide his amusement. “You wanted to know if I ever tasted her? If I ever licked inside her, felt her hands clutch in my hair, felt her body tremble under my hands, sucked against her clit and tasted how wet and slick she got?” Eliot’s voice goes soft and deep again, and Quentin suddenly feels like he can’t breathe.

“Isn’t that right?” Eliot asks, still watching him hotly, smiling. “You wanted me to tell you what it felt like, to press my fingers hard enough against her hips to leave marks on her tan skin? How she whined when I lapped against her, got her so close, and then pulled back to leave biting kisses along her thighs? How her hips bucked against my mouth, how the heels of her feet left bruises between my shoulder blades when she came, how she threw her head back and moaned while I worked her through it, with my tongue on her clit and my fingers inside her?” Eliot’s voice is still too loud, too loud to say the things he’s saying, so unashamed and proud.

“El, please, don’t.” Quentin whimpers against his wrist, squirming against the bed, unable to control himself. He was picturing them together, Eliot’s mouth hot between her thighs, dotted with little red bite marks, her hands pulling at his hair, his collared shirt, her glorious body laid out with Eliot between her legs, his hands gripping her hips while she grinds her sweet pussy against his mouth, what her voice would sound like as she moaned and took what she wanted.

Eliot reaches one hand down, wraps it around Quentin’s cock, jerking him gently through his underwear. “Don’t what, baby Q?” He asks as Quentin’s hips arch off the bed, whimpering. “Are you close already? Gonna come in your boxers for me while I stroke you and talk about Bambi?”

Quentin’s face is bright red again, he can’t even imagine how humiliating it would be to come in his underwear while Eliot whispered all these filthy things in his ear.

“No, you’ve just got to stop-“ Quentin starts, not sure what to say.

“Stop what? Talking? But you love it when I talk dirty to you, don’t you?” Eliot’s hand is moving a little faster now, and he’s licking and nipping at Quentin’s neck and chest while he lets out an unintelligible groan. “It’s okay, baby, this will be your favorite part.”

Quentin is barely aware of the sounds he’s making now, focused on Eliot’s words and his hand and his mouth, hot against his neck. He can’t imagine what else Eliot has to say, how it could be hotter than everything else he’s said so far.

“Can you picture it? Can you see me pulling away from her, where she’s hot and slick, with my mouth rubbed red like yours? Can you picture her breasts heaving, her face relaxed and satisfied? Can you picture me, my face, slick and messy from her cunt, where I got her so hot, so wet all for me?” Eliot is relentless, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so delicious as watching Quentin fight so hard against how much this is turning him on, he’s trembling and flushed so dark, tossing his head back and forth like he just can’t stay still.

It’s nearly too much, Quentin bites at his own lips, trying hard to keep himself from coming. He _can_ , he can see them in his imagination, can see Eliot’s lips slick from Margo’s cunt, wants to taste them, wants to lick her off of him, kiss them both, drown all three of them in the taste of her, heady and sharp, and his hips are stuttering now as he nearly thrashes under Eliot.

Eliot can’t believe how good this is, this hot rush of power that he can make Quentin come apart like this with just his words and his touches, Quentin’s still wearing clothes for Christ’s sake. Eliot watches Quentin’s face, knows he’s so close, but he’s holding himself back. That simply won’t do.

“Do you wanna know what she tastes like, Q?” Eliot drops a kiss into the curve of his neck, sucks at it until he’s sure he’s leaving a deep purple bruise on his skin. Quentin is nearly sobbing in pleasure now, shaking and rolling his hips into Eliot’s hand. Eliot is sure that he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it, mindlessly chasing the orgasm that he’s still fighting against.

“She tastes like heaven.” Eliot bites down into his shoulder then, hard, and Quentin is gone. He makes a sound that could be a pain sound, then it turns into a long, shivering moan as he shudders, arching up off the bed, rutting into Eliot’s hand as he comes, hot and slick into his boxers. It seems to go on forever, Quentin shaking and writhing under Eliot’s hands.

Quentin buries his face in Eliot’s throat, sitting up against him now, not sure what to do or expect.

“Mmm,” Eliot moans against his collarbone, lapping at his throat.

Once Quentin has recovered enough to move, he starts to scramble back from Eliot, but he doesn’t let him move nearly at all.

“Don’t you dare, Quentin.” He says, breaking out what Margo had referred to as the ‘Daddy voice’ earlier.

“What?” Quentin asks, worried.

“I can hear you thinking from here, baby.” Eliot’s voice is soothing, but still teasing gently. “Don’t you dare run or pretend this didn’t happen. I told you all about how it felt to taste Bambi and make her come on my tongue, and you came in your underwear, and it was so incredibly hot that I might have to discipline you if you pretend you didn’t love it.”

“But did you-“ Quentin cuts himself off, feeling silly.

Eliot grabs his wrist, squeezes it sharply and brings it down to rub against his own rock hard dick, pushing against his pants like they might not hold him.

“Now do you believe that I liked it?” Eliot asks dryly.

Quentin pulls back from where his head was slumped against Eliot’s shoulder, and looks up at him.

“Are you sure that was-okay?” Quentin asks, concern in his eyes.

“Baby, that was more than okay. That was so good. You were so good. You did exactly what I wanted.” Eliot watches Quentin’s face carefully, sees how he blinks a little at his praise. “What about you? Was that okay for you? Was it too much?”

Quentin looks at him incredulously, pulling his hand back from Eliot’s crotch. “You’re not serious.”

“Of course I am! I want to make sure I didn’t push you too far.” Eliot kisses him, tender and sweet, pulls back to look into his eyes again.

“No, it was not too much. I didn’t even know you could do that.” Quentin says, almost begrudgingly. Eliot laughs at him, feeling content.

“Do what? Make you come mostly just by talking to you?” Eliot punctuates his words by stroking Quentin again through his boxers, still damp and slippery with his come, and Quentin shudders into the oversensitivity.

“Yes.” Quentin admits, then an idea occurs to him. He looks away from Eliot’s searching gaze, doesn’t want to ask.

“Nope. Eyes back up here, baby. What do you want?” Eliot waits patiently for Quentin to look back up at him, his face that was just flushed hot from his orgasm now wearing that delicate pretty blush again.

“Maybe sometime you can try that again? But, you know, all the way?” Quentin’s mumbling, shy again even after what they just did, and Eliot grins at him.

“All the way? You want to see if I can make you come without touching your gorgeous dick at all?” Eliot holds his gaze until Quentin squirms.

“Yeah-” Quentin cuts himself off, takes a breath and continues, “-and maybe this time you could-” He stops himself again, embarrassed.

“Tell me, baby. Just tell me and I’ll do it, whatever you want.” Eliot reassures him.

“Maybe you could tie me up while you do it?” Quentin is resolutely not looking in his eyes, his gaze now hovering somewhere around Eliot’s left ear, but he doesn’t mind, proud that Quentin was able to say it at all.

“Of course, darling. I’ll strip you too, leave you tied up naked while I make you come all over yourself from just my voice and it’ll be so good.” Eliot sounds a little breathless just talking about it. His Quentin comes up with the best ideas.

“And will you still wear your-?” Quentin makes a flustered hand gesture at Eliot, still fully dressed where he sits on the bed.

“Yes, baby. I’ll stay dressed, and leave you helplessly exposed, on display for me. Just like you like.” Eliot promises. He realizes that his erection, which had flagged a little when he was reassuring Quentin that they were okay, was back at full force, straining against his pants.

He spells away the mess in Quentin’s boxers, kisses him again.

“So, do you want to come here?” He asks Quentin, looking at his face, then back down to his own lap.

Quentin scrambles to get his legs under him, lays forward with his head nearly in Eliot’s lap as he fumbles with the fastenings on his pants. He can hear Eliot chuckling at his eagerness, but it sounds far away, and he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed.

Finally, with all the buttons and zippers on Eliot’s pants undone, Quentin is driving him crazy. He’s been licking along his waistband and nibbling at his navel, making no move to go lower. Eliot fists his hand in Quentin’s hair and pulls him back for a moment. Quentin rewards him with a delicious full body shudder.

“No fair, baby. You know I’m not done with you yet. You can save all your best tricks for another day. What you’re gonna do now is suck my cock quick and dirty since you want it so badly, and then we’re gonna get back to my plan.” Eliot watches while Quentin smirks up at him, another bratty flash in his eyes.

“Which would be what, exactly?” Quentin asks, hands now curling under the waistband of Eliot’s pants, jerking them down to his knees, letting his dick spring free. 

Eliot smiles fondly, clenches his hand in Quentin’s hair ever tighter and pulls him up so his ear is an inch from Eliot’s mouth.

“All you need to know, my love, is that my plan is to absolutely _ruin_ you. And do you want to know why? Because you need it and I love it. I love how needy you get, how you beg and plead with me, how you tremble and whine. And you know I’ll give it to you, darling. You know I know what you need.” Eliot can see the bratty attitude melt out of him before he even finished speaking.

He drags Quentin back down to his lap roughly, and he makes a keening sound in his throat all the way down, and sinks his mouth over Eliot’s cock. Eliot moans, watching him closely to make sure he isn’t too far gone.

“That’s it, baby, I knew you would be good for me.” Eliot isn’t lost for words very often, but it happens most often when Quentin is sucking him off. Thankfully for both of them, this is always the right thing to say. It always makes Quentin shiver, makes his ears turn red, and it always gives Eliot such a thrill to know that Quentin wants nothing more than to please him.

Quentin is certainly pleasing him now, his hands gripping at Eliot’s thighs as he pulls up, swirls his tongue around the tip of his dick, and making pleased little noises when Eliot bucks his hips up. He lingers there, licking in earnest, almost absentminded as though he’s lost in it.

Eliot still has his hands in Quentin’s hair, much less harsh, but still tugging softly, enjoying the way it makes Quentin blink, makes his hand stutter where it’s stroking Eliot at the base of his dick. Quentin sinks back down again, taking him all the way to the back of his throat and staying there, letting his tongue play along the underside.

Eliot fights to keep from closing his eyes, but lets his head fall back as he lets out a harsh breath.

Quentin swallows reflexively, then does it again and Eliot loses the fight, closes his eyes and groans, low and deep in his throat. Quentin stays right where he is, holding Eliot’s dick on his tongue, in the back of his throat for long moments, and Eliot is breathing harshly. Quentin makes a small sound, thick and choked, and Eliot pulls him off by his hair again, this time gently.

“Easy, sweet boy, go easy.” Eliot says to him, sitting back to look at his gorgeous face, flushed with heat, mouth red and swollen, eyes teary from fighting his gag reflex.

Quentin looks up at him, looking almost bereft.

“No, El- I want. Wanna make you feel-“ Quentin can barely get the words out, but this time it’s not shame that makes it hard to talk.

“You’re down deep, aren’t you, baby?” Eliot asks affectionately. As incredibly turned on as he is from watching, feeling Quentin’s mouth on him, there was something about watching Quentin sink so far under that always left Eliot feeling so soft. Not that Eliot wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t pull his hair and leave savage bruises on his neck, his stomach, his thighs. Not that Eliot wouldn’t spank his ass red or slap his face when he needed it, when he got mouthy and caustic.  
He would. Eliot would do all those things and more, but knowing that Quentin needed it, trusted him to give it to him, let Eliot watch him when he went under, too far gone to feel self-conscious, absolutely unashamed in his need, that was a gift.

“Still okay? Give me a color.” Eliot kissed him gently along the line of his cheek, down to his jaw while he waited for Quentin to find his words.

“Green. But El, I want-“ Quentin’s voice is still raspy, from leaving Eliot in his throat for so long.

“I know, baby boy, you do. You make me feel so good when you take me deep like that, it’s so good, baby. Your hot mouth was just too good for me. You were gonna make me come in your pretty little mouth and then where would we be, sweetheart?” Eliot brings him in close, kisses his mouth, slow and deep and filthy, sucking on his tongue while Quentin whimpered into his mouth.

“Yes, Eliot, please.” Quentin drags out the words, trying to show Eliot that that’s exactly what he wanted. He wanted Eliot to come for him, down his throat so he could take him inside of himself, and he knew that thought was crazy, but he couldn’t help how much he simply wanted it.

“Not today, I have another idea, but I need you to be good and patient for me, okay? Can you do that?” Eliot asks, wanting to leave Quentin an out, if this was too much, but he knew he wouldn’t take it.

“Mhm, I can be good.” Quentin smiled up at him, wanting so badly to do anything that got him more of Eliot’s praise.

“Yes you can, I know how good you are. You ready to get undressed for me?” Eliot asked, watching the adorable look of confusion on Quentin’s face as he looked down and blinked at himself, seemingly unaware that he was still wearing his T-shirt and boxers.

Quentin sat up more fully then, and reached for the back of his shirt, pulling it up over his head, slowly, languidly, and Eliot felt his mouth go dry.

He knew, logically, that this was not supposed to be a sexy striptease, that the orgasm and the relaxation and subspace was making Quentin move at a slow, teasing pace. But that thought didn’t make it any less hot to watch. If Quentin’s brain were working at his normal speed, he would’ve wriggled out of his shirt, kicked his boxers away hurriedly, blushing the entire time. There was none of that now, no rush, none of the anxiety that Quentin usually had, as though he thought the offer had a time limit, like if he weren’t naked and waiting in 10 seconds or less, that Eliot would tell him his time was up, better luck next time.

Eliot spared a thought for how hot that idea could be, if he played it right, having Quentin ride him, tell him he wasn’t allowed to touch himself, that he had 5 minutes to make himself come on Eliot’s cock or he wouldn’t be coming at all, and then Quentin had laid back down and ran his hands down his own stomach, toward the waistband of his boxers and Eliot watched him hungrily.

He pushed his boxers down, just as slowly and when they got tangled at his feet, Eliot helped, slipping them off and tossing them beside the bed.

Quentin looked at his face, still glassy eyed and overheated and unconcerned with his nudity and Eliot smiled.

“What is it, baby?” He asked, keeping his voice light, this time determined to keep Quentin under, not that he really had to worry.

“I like when you watch me like that.” Quentin says easily, no hesitation, now able to say whatever he wants with no nervousness to trip him up.

“I know you do, baby, that’s why I do it. Well, that and because you’re just so damn pretty to look at.” Eliot isn’t teasing anymore, not like he would’ve been if this were the beginning of the night. Quentin smiles, open and soft, and just lets Eliot look his fill, his hot gaze sliding over him.

This, among so many others, was another of Eliot’s favorite reasons to do this. Usually, Quentin was in danger of being eaten alive by his self-consciousness. But not when he was like this. No, when Eliot dropped him down like this, he soaked up Eliot’s praise and attention, let himself be complimented and damn near worshipped, he didn’t hide or cover himself. Eliot had no problem teasing him, coaxing and convincing him to get naked, enjoying his stammers and blushes as Eliot told him just how good he looked, but it was always a nice treat when Quentin would just lay back let Eliot fawn over him.

Eliot moved to prop himself up on one arm and lay next to him, dropping his hand gently on Quentin’s neck, stroking a finger up and down while Quentin made soft, content sounds. Eliot cradled his hand around Quentin’s throat, pressing softly, then harder and watching his face. Quentin was watching him too, eyes relaxed and warm, sighing into the gentle pressure at his throat.

He moved his hand down, over Quentin’s chest, and thumbed over his nipple, a feather light touch that he repeated over and over, watching Quentin inhale sharply. It was still a little too soon for Quentin to get hard again, but Eliot could tell that he was starting to drift from lazy satisfaction back into desire.

He slid his hand over to the other nipple, pinching at it a few times, then doing the same gentle caressing he had done on the other side. They hardened under his fingers, and Eliot leaned down to lick at them, first one, then the other, with the same gentle pressure, same repeated flicking motions that were turning Quentin’s breathing ragged.

Eliot pulled back, blew over them gently and listened to Quentin let out a tiny gasp of surprise. He leaned up again, putting his fingers back on his nipple, still stroking, and slanted his mouth over Quentin’s. It started soft, slow and tender, Quentin’s mouth open and pliant, letting Eliot lick at his lips and tongue. Eliot kissed him like that, sweet and easy for a long time, keeping his fingers working on his nipples the whole time, until Quentin’s noises got more insistent and his hands tensed and relaxed in the sheets.

Eliot smiled against his mouth, pulled back and gave him an appraising look, taking him in, all the way down to where he was starting to get hard again.

“Do you wanna come again for me, baby? Would you like that?” Eliot asked, still rubbing at his nipples just to watch his chest move while he breathes heavily.

“Mmm, yes, Eliot, please.” Quentin says, his eyes going dark again.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re gonna want to save your begging for a little later, cause I’m gonna take my time with you. I’m going to touch you, work you up so slowly, open you up so gently, until you’re writhing and desperate for me. And then I’m gonna slide into you, rock against you so gently until you’re mindless with it. And I’m gonna keep you there, darling, keep you so close, fucking you so sweet and tender, until you beg for me to let you come. And I’m gonna work you through it, and then I’m gonna come from listening to all the hot little sounds you make.” Eliot’s eyes are sharp and dark, and he watches Quentin wrestle with the want to stay soft and yielding to Eliot’s voice and hands, and the edge of shyness that threatens to come back.

Quentin shivered under the weight of Eliot’s hands and words, and Eliot smiled. It seemed like Quentin was going to let himself stay down for this.

“You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you?” Eliot watches Quentin, who is still looking him in the eyes, no shame or tension.

“Mhm. I like when you talk dirty. Like earlier.” Quentin gives him a little smile, still breathing unevenly from Eliot’s hand on his chest.

“I thought so. I could feel you getting hotter as I said it, darling.” Eliot lays searing open mouthed kisses along the side of his neck, nibbling a little when he gets to the bruise he left earlier, laughing against Quentin’s skin when he jumps.

Eliot slid his hands down, caressing over the soft hair on his stomach, following it down until it tapered into the neat thatch of dark brown curls between his legs. He let his hand stop there, gently petting his fingers over the hair, listening to Quentin’s breath hitch again.

“So, are you going to let me touch you before you come again?” Eliot teases, kissing down his chest, lapping at his nipples again, and licking down to his navel.

“I think that depends on you.” Quentin says, for once not bratty, just earnest and sweet.

“Oh, trust me, baby, I’m gonna touch you a lot before I let you come again. That one earlier was just a freebie, just to take the edge off. I just asked because I wanted to hear you tell me that I could get you off again so easily.” Eliot smirks at him from where he’s started licking into Quentin’s belly button, putting one hand on his hip to hold him from bucking up to meet his mouth.

Quentin smiles back, brings a hand up to stroke through Eliot’s curls, huffing out a laugh when Eliot sighs against his stomach. Eliot licks lower, nips at the soft skin right where his waistband would be on his hip, tiny biting kisses that make Quentin stop smiling and tremble beneath him.

“Do you want me to go lower, sweet boy?” Eliot is sucking another purple mark into the skin of his flank, and Quentin is squirming against him, letting his hand slide out of Eliot’s hair to clench in the sheets. Eliot moves to put both hands on his hips, holding him still against his mouth.

Quentin loves when Eliot holds him like this, loves the feeling of his thumbs digging into his hip bones, the way his big hands curve around him, leaving his fingers splayed over his ass, radiating heat into his skin.

Quentin moans, trying not to rock against him, but knowing Eliot wouldn’t let him if he did. He suddenly wants to feel it, wants to feel the resistance there in Eliot’s hands on him. He tries to wiggle experimentally and feels Eliot tighten his grip. He bites at the mark he’s left there, relishing the whimper it gets from Quentin’s throat.

“None of that, little one, you’re being so good for me. If you want me to hold you tighter, just ask.” Eliot says, loosening his hands to a barely there hold on Quentin’s hips.

Eliot looks up at him, watching as Quentin sinks back under a little bit, always the result of telling him he’s being good.

“Please-“ Quentin’s voice is dazed and shuddery again and Eliot bites at the bruise again.

“Use your words.” Eliot slides his mouth over to the other hip, worrying the skin there with his teeth, intent on leaving him another matching mark.

“Please, Eliot, hold tighter. Wanna feel your hands on me tomorrow.” Quentin says, words a little broken. Eliot grips him hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his ass, thumbs pushing under his hip bones, and Quentin moans.

“See, baby?” Eliot says, between sucking at Quentin’s skin. “I’ll give you anything you want if you ask for it nicely enough.” He bites at the second bruise again, pulls back and looks at the matching set of purple hickeys on his hips. “These look so pretty on you.” 

Quentin sits up a little, eyes widening when he sees the large, angry looking bruises. Eliot lets him look for a moment, then leans up to kiss him again, hard, forcing him to lay back down underneath him.

Quentin lets out another shivery little moan, feeling Eliot bracing his weight where his hands are still hard against him, just inches from where those bruises are. He lets himself be kissed, drowning in the heat of his mouth and the slide of his tongue and he knows he’s fully hard now and starting to ache from it.

Eliot pulls back, stares at his mouth for a minute, and Quentin is sure it’s bruised too, just like the rest of his body. He thinks about how many marks he’s gonna have in the morning and whimpers again, thinking about the one on his neck that he won’t be able to hide, and the handprints that he’s sure Eliot is leaving on his ass.

Eliot’s eyes are on his now, expectantly, and Quentin realizes that he’s waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t even hear.

“What?” Quentin asks, feeling far away.

“Hey, darling. I need a color from you.” Eliot says, eyes sharpening a little at how suddenly Quentin seems to have slipped so far under again.

“Green. So fucking good.” Quentin felt like he was floating, still picturing his marks and bruises, feeling so small and owned.

“Q, look at me, please.” Eliot is sitting back on his heels between Quentin’s legs now, and he was calling him “Q” again, which was nice, but not as good as “baby” or “darling.”

Quentin looks up at him with a slight pout.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eliot asks, ready to try to bring him back up and break the scene.

“Green, El, just thinkin’.” Quentin is hushed, soft.

“Thinking about what?” Eliot doesn’t want to relax yet, unsure.

“How I’m gonna look. With all my-” Quentin tries to move his arm to gesture at his marks, but it feels like he’s moving through water, so he lets his hand drop.

Eliot smiles down at him. He understands what Quentin is getting at, why it dragged him down again.

“With all _my_ marks, I think you mean.” Eliot bites at them again. “That’s why I put them there, after all. To make you mine. So that every time you look at yourself, you’ll know how good I had you. And they’ll know too, everyone who sees your pretty throat, they’ll know how you laid under me and begged and squirmed and pleaded for me, and how I gave you everything you wanted. They’ll know that you belong to me.” Eliot licks down further, along the lines that go from hips to thighs, and Quentin cries out, shuddering against his hands and his mouth.

“El,” Quentin moans, “Eliot.”

“What is it, baby?” Eliot asks, sounding worried.

“That.” Quentin sighs, content again.

“What?” Eliot doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and is starting to feel nervous.

“Baby. Darling. Sweet boy.” Quentin is practically moaning his favorite nicknames at him, and Eliot laughs down at him, relaxing once more. Quentin wasn’t too far under, he had just been pouting.

“You didn’t like it when I stopped calling you names, did you, baby?” Eliot drags the words out, hot against his inner thigh.

“No. It’s nice. Sounds nice when you say it.” Quentin whispers, rocking his hips again to feel Eliot’s hands squeeze him tight.

“Well then, _darling_ , what do you want?” Eliot pulls back from kissing his thighs, leaning up to blow gently on the head of Quentin’s cock, red and leaking for him.

“Eliot, please!” Quentin cries loudly, arching up off the bed and squeezing his eyes shut. Eliot watched him, smiling and waiting for his body to relax again.

“Yes?” 

“Please, your mouth,” Quentin pleads brokenly. He’s still trembling, but his body is flat against the bed again.

“Good boy.” Eliot’s voice is smooth and silky, and Quentin opens his eyes and looks down at him, just in time to watch Eliot take him into his mouth, sliding down to the hilt. Eliot’s eyes are open, watching Quentin sharply. Quentin wants to toss his head back, but he can’t look away from where his cock disappears into Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot pulls back, trailing his tongue up the underside of Quentin’s dick and Quentin whines, sharp and loud.

“You gonna watch, sweet boy? You gonna watch me suck your dick so good for you?” Eliot laps at the head, wraps his hand around the shaft and strokes him, slowly.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, unable to say anything else, unable to take his eyes off of Eliot. Eliot keeps stroking him, leaving hot, wet kisses up and down the sides of his dick then dipping lower to lick at his balls. Quentin is still watching intently, biting hard into his lower lip.

Eliot takes one of his balls into his mouth, lets his hand glide up to circle the tip of his dick with his thumb, gathering wetness. He sucks gently on the flesh in his mouth, listening to Quentin’s breathing, harsh and restless.

Eliot pulls back to sink his mouth back down over Quentin’s cock, and Quentin lets out a choked little sob.

“El, I’m close!” Quentin cries, still watching him intently. Eliot pulls back immediately, and Quentin whines at the loss.

“Not yet, baby, you gotta hold on for me, okay?” Eliot is grinning down at him, watching the flush bloom darker over his chest and up his neck.

Quentin closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to bring himself back from the edge. Eliot’s thumbs are rubbing gently along his hips, and Quentin focuses on them, they feel good, but calming. He breathes through it for a minute, and then opens his eyes again.

“Okay, I’m o-okay.” Quentin stammers. Eliot unwraps his hands from Quentin, and he whimpers again.

“It’s okay, you’ll like this. Watch.” Eliot brings his hands up between them, watching Quentin watch them. Every time that Eliot is casting, Quentin’s eyes follow his hands, darkening the entire time, and this time is no different. Eliot twists his hands into a few tuts, moving very slowly so Quentin can watch longer.

Quentin suddenly tosses his head back, letting out a low groan, apparently having forgotten what the spell had meant, and Eliot smiles, knowing his spell worked to clean and lube him from the inside out.

“Gonna fuck me now?” Quentin asks happily.

“Not yet, darling. Almost.” Eliot laughs at the look of dismay on Quentin’s face. He brings his hands back down to press on his hips, to wrap around to his ass. He slinks back down Quentin’s body, pressing more hot kisses along his inner thighs as he elbows them further apart.

He leans down further and licks a strip over Quentin’s hole, and Quentin lets out a grunt, low and guttural.

“Oh, god, Eliot.” Quentin moans as Eliot licks at him, hot and insistent. Quentin clenches his hands in the sheets, trying to stop himself from moving, not knowing if he wants to twist into Eliot’s mouth or away from it.

Eliot lets him get used to the feeling for a moment, then pushes further as Quentin starts to open up for him. He sucks at his hole, listening for Quentin’s needy little whines, then pushes the tip of his tongue inside him.

“Oh—oh, El, please, please—” Quentin’s voice is thick with need and Eliot pulls back a little, bringing his hand down to rub at his hole while he looks up at Quentin’s face, flushed red again.

“You look so fucking good like this, darling. Laid out for me like a fucking buffet, whining and desperate. Huh, baby, are you desperate for me? Greedy for me to touch you?” He presses the tip of one finger into his hole, feeling it give easily from the lube spell and from his tongue.

“Yes, Eliot, yes. So greedy for you, please.” Quentin is wrecked again, ready to say anything Eliot wants to hear if he would just fucking _touch him like this._

“I know, baby, I know you need it.” Eliot pushes his finger in further, feeling Quentin clench around him as he moans above him. “Relax. You have to relax for me if you want more.”

Quentin writhes, and takes a deep breath, and Eliot feels his muscles relax around his finger and slips a second one in while he’s open. He slides them out torturously slowly, then back in, and Quentin makes the hottest little mewling sound.

“Make that noise again for me, darling.” Eliot tells him, fucking him gently with his fingers, and Quentin does, over and over. Eliot lets out a moan, can’t help it as he watches his fingers disappear into Quentin’s greedy, perfect hole.

He scissors them inside him, and hits something so good that Quentin damn near wails under him, and Eliot does it again, then slips a third finger into him.

“El-, please please please, I need you.” Quentin is mindless, shameless.

“I’m right here, sweet boy, I’m right here.” Eliot reassures him, still moving his fingers inside him, feeling his body jerk with every thrust.

“I need you, I need you in me, please, please.” Quentin begs, wound so tight that he can barely breathe.

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you, I promise. We’re almost done.” Eliot slips his fingers out of him and slicks up his cock, rising up to his knees over him. Quentin sobs at the loss of his fingers. “I know, baby, your greedy little hole is aching for it, clenching on nothing. I’ll give it to you. I’ve got you.”

Quentin moans at his words, can’t stop himself. “Please, Eliot, I’m so _empty_. I need—” Quentin babbles crazily, unable to stop himself.

“I know, darling, I know.” Eliot leans down and swallows his pleas with a searing kiss, then pulls back to line himself up with Quentin’s hole.

He pushes himself in gently and Quentin is gasping underneath him, shaking, wanting so badly to push back into the stretch that Eliot is fucking into him, but doesn’t have the leverage in this position. He brings his knees up, leaving himself shamelessly displayed for Eliot’s hungry eyes.

“That’s it, give yourself over to it, over to me.” Eliot tells him, bottoming out inside him, stilling his hips to let Quentin get used to it.

“More. Eliot, please? I need you to move.” Quentin cants his hips up, groans at the deeper angle, and Eliot slides back out and pushes in harder.

“Yes, Eliot, please, just like that.” Quentin is nearly shouting now, hands clenched, white knuckled into the sheets.

Eliot finds a rhythm, rocking and insistent, slowly thrusting, steadily pushing him to the edge, and Quentin’s cries bleed into each other until he’s just making a long broken whine, lost into the hum that Eliot is building into his blood, slowly, unrelentingly.

Eliot is gasping now too, letting out soft little _oh oh oh_ sounds, and it’s nearly too much for Quentin, caught in the pulse beating wildly in his ears.

“Please, please, please, _Eliot_ , I’m so fucking close.” Quentin begs, shuddering underneath him.

“Almost, baby, so close.” Eliot reaches down and wraps his hand around his cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Quentin bites his lip and tastes blood, practically vibrating with the energy it takes to keep himself from coming.

“It’s okay, sweet boy, let go for me. Come on, come for me, darling. You take it so fucking good for me, baby. Give it to me. Show me how good I make you feel.” Eliot orders, and Quentin throws his head back and shouts as he comes, spilling over Eliot’s hands and both of their stomachs. It lasts longer than Quentin ever thought possible, he’s shaking and sobbing, and still painting his own chest with hot ropes of come. He whines aloud again then slumps, boneless into the mattress.

Eliot pulls out of him, groaning, tapping at his hip to make Quentin lift up, tilt his hips up at Eliot. Quentin wails at the loss and the strain, but does it anyway, because Eliot asked him to, then he feels it. Eliot’s coming, but instead of streaking his chest, Quentin can feel it, hot and slippery, landing in ropes over his cock, onto his thighs and his ass and he moans thickly at the feeling.

Eliot is trembling above him, breathing harder than he is, gasping, and Quentin lets out a sharp breath.

After a moment, Eliot leans back down, licking up his own come from his thighs, then lapping it off of Quentin’s cock as he cries out from the oversensitivity. 

Eliot climbs back up the bed to wrap his arms around Quentin’s chest, kissing him, hot and demanding, licking his own come into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin sucks at his tongue, moaning at the taste of Eliot in his mouth, so sharp and delicious, shivering at the thought of Eliot cleaning all of his own come off of his body. Eliot pulls back from the kiss to watch Quentin’s chest, still heaving while he tries to catch his breath.

“I’ve got you, darling, just breathe.” Eliot whispers, holding him tight as he starts to shiver. Eliot reaches down, drags the blanket over them, and nuzzles into the crook of his neck as his breathing starts to go back to normal.

“Oh, _my god_ , Eliot.” Quentin gasps out, unable to say anything else.

“I know, baby. I know.” Eliot drapes himself over Quentin, smiling at how he’s still trembling, completely undone.

“Holy shit.” Quentin’s gasps are slower now, and he’s not shaking anymore.

“So, what did you think?” Eliot whispers into his neck, nipping softly, and Quentin huffs, feeling a mild flash of annoyance at how Eliot is still so coherent.

“You are magnificent. I love you.” Quentin says, unable to lie to him, so satisfied and warm beside him.

“I love you too, baby Q. But you’re sure? You liked it? It wasn’t too much?” Eliot asks, the same tiny hint of insecurity in his voice. Quentin turns more fully into his embrace, huffing quietly with the effort.

“Eliot. That was hands down, the best sex I have ever had in my life. Stop fishing for compliments.” Quentin soothes the sting of his words with a kiss, slow and languid at his jaw.

“Baby, I’m not fishing for compliments. Just asking for credit where credit is due.” Eliot smirks at him, leaning back in for another kiss.

Quentin pulls back, looks at Eliot seriously for a minute. “Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to-”

“I know. And I don’t want you to think that truly excellent sex will solve everything. But I know that the best way to convince you of how much fun this is for me is just to show you. So, do you believe me now? That pushing you around, humiliating you, teasing you just like you like, do you believe that it is never a chore for me? I love watching you come apart.” Eliot asks, grinning widely when Quentin turns pink again, closing his eyes.

“God, Q, I don’t think I have the energy to rail you like that again, but your pretty little blush makes me wish I did.” Eliot plants a soft kiss against the bruise in the crook of his neck, and Quentin shivers against his mouth. “Answer me. Do you believe me?”

Quentin opens his eyes, quirks an eyebrow at him and smiles. “Yeah, El. I believe you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t need reminding again.” Quentin is playing at being bratty, but he means it, gently alluding to the possibility that this might happen again, that Quentin might be overwhelmed by nerves and insecurity.

“I know, sweet boy. But next time, just ask me to pull you apart. You don’t have to throw a tantrum. Or be mean to Bambi. Unless you want me to ask her to help me?” Eliot lets his voice drop off as a question, watching Quentin’s eyes flutter closed as he makes a soft sleepy sound in his throat, unable to hold it back.

“Yeah, baby. I thought so.” Eliot whispers against his neck, nibbling there and pulling Quentin to lay against his chest. Quentin nuzzles into his chest hair, makes a happy sound, and lets his body relax, starting to doze off.

Eliot smiles to himself, cheered by the knowledge that he had gotten everything he wanted out of the night. He had reassured Quentin, gotten to touch him until he thought he was going to lose his mind, and had had some incredible sex in the process. He never wanted Quentin to doubt his love for him, and if he could help stop Quentin from sinking into a depression spiral, he would do whatever he could. But when Quentin needed him to show him, to prove it, to bring him out of his own head to focus on the physical...Eliot would be there, more than happy to help.

Eliot presses a chaste kiss to the top of Quentin’s head, tightens his arms around him, and lets himself drift off to sleep.

The last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep, while he spells away the sweat and the come covering them, is how much he can’t wait to ask Margo to help him next time. Even though Quentin might not want to admit it, they both know that there will be a “next time” and Eliot can’t wait to make it even better for him.


End file.
